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desperanceI can't help feeling that it would be nice if, every time - every day! - when I hear myself mutter "I wish I wasn't so depressed all the time," I didn't hear my other self come back with "I wish I didn't have reason to be so depressed all the time."
Snarl. I am so bloody depressing to live with; I'm fed up with myself.
It has not been a good day for little things to go badly wrong on top of the all-pervading gloom. One of my phones has apparently died, and the other may be dying. I went into town all buoyed for work regardless, set up the laptop with the external keyboard and mouse as my physio demands, slipped in my thumb-drive to upload the latest version of the current book - and found that it had died, somewhere between my house and the Lit & Phil. Linux couldn't read it, Windows wanted to reformat it but couldn't.
In the end it didn't matter, because I remembered exactly where I'd stopped writing - the leap of the tiger excites the kid! - and could carry on from there without need to refer back; and there's nothing on the dead drive but back-ups, and I do have other thumb-drives; but it still cost me twenty minutes of faff and temper, and it's a miracle that I got quota today.
And then I came home and - well, was it really necessary to knock a new roll of kitchen-paper into the washing-up water, boys? Was it really? When it was the last roll in the house, particularly? When it's not just that you know you're not allowed up on the kitchen counter, but as it happens there was nothing for you to be up there for...?
Also, I have burned myself spectacularly on the oven shelf, hurrah. Why did God give us forearms, if not to carry scars?
Still, I venture to suggest that my dinner is making the house smell fantastic. It's been in there for, um, seven hours now. Seven and a half. If it is in fact as nice as it smells, I'll tell you all about it later. When I feel entitled. Gloomy people don't get to brag, it isn't fitting.
Snarl. I am so bloody depressing to live with; I'm fed up with myself.
It has not been a good day for little things to go badly wrong on top of the all-pervading gloom. One of my phones has apparently died, and the other may be dying. I went into town all buoyed for work regardless, set up the laptop with the external keyboard and mouse as my physio demands, slipped in my thumb-drive to upload the latest version of the current book - and found that it had died, somewhere between my house and the Lit & Phil. Linux couldn't read it, Windows wanted to reformat it but couldn't.
In the end it didn't matter, because I remembered exactly where I'd stopped writing - the leap of the tiger excites the kid! - and could carry on from there without need to refer back; and there's nothing on the dead drive but back-ups, and I do have other thumb-drives; but it still cost me twenty minutes of faff and temper, and it's a miracle that I got quota today.
And then I came home and - well, was it really necessary to knock a new roll of kitchen-paper into the washing-up water, boys? Was it really? When it was the last roll in the house, particularly? When it's not just that you know you're not allowed up on the kitchen counter, but as it happens there was nothing for you to be up there for...?
Also, I have burned myself spectacularly on the oven shelf, hurrah. Why did God give us forearms, if not to carry scars?
Still, I venture to suggest that my dinner is making the house smell fantastic. It's been in there for, um, seven hours now. Seven and a half. If it is in fact as nice as it smells, I'll tell you all about it later. When I feel entitled. Gloomy people don't get to brag, it isn't fitting.